


Life After Death

by kfcassemble



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 08:37:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kfcassemble/pseuds/kfcassemble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock Holmes escapes the fight at the Falls of the Reichenbach, he makes his way back to London and visits a few old friends. But was the instance at the Falls the last he would see of Moriarty's men? Set after The Final Problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life After Death

One down. Approximately five left, plus Colonel Moran. My best chance of survival is to try to outrun them. I don’t get far before Moran, undoubtedly more trained in combat than I, cuts off my escape. Quickly, think. Feign surprise. I stand with a slightly slacked jaw and widen my eyes. Before I lunge forward, I see a smug look on his face, which is abandoned at impact. I use the advantage of his top heaviness and act as a fulcrum, pulling his feet from under him and thrusting him over my shoulder. He goes unconscious due to the hard rock of the falls hitting his skull.  
The five other goons stand in temporary shock. Short lived. They snap out of it and throw themselves toward where I stand. Patience is the key. They are less than three feet away when I execute another forward lunge. I break through the middle of them and sprint for my life.  
===  
I stand before the door to Mycroft’s office. I had hardly opened my mouth to speak before the woman in the main study said, “Mr. Holmes is in the back.”  
Of course she knew who I was here for. All of London came to my brother for important business. Especially those of my current look. As I wait for Mycroft to open the door, I preen my hair and readjust the small hat on my head. I feel absolutely absurd.  
The door opens. My brother steps out with a somber look on his face.  
“Yes, hello, what do you need, madame?”  
Although I am a master of disguise, I cannot help the twitch of my mouth into a smile thinking about his view of an elderly woman before him.  
“Mycroft, dear! It has been long since I’ve seen you! Don’t you recognize your own Great-Aunt Bonnie?” I manage out in a high-pitched voice.  
He looks harder at me. “No, I don’t think I do.” He regards me coldly. “But if you are family, you must have heard about Sherlock, then. I am terribly sorry, but you have caught me at a bad time. Please feel free to come back later.”  
He moves as if to go back in his office. I start to talk more urgently.  
“Wait! I have actually come to talk on that subject.” I spit out.  
“Again, I am terribly sorry.” He isn’t. “Please forgive me. Good evening, madame.”  
The door is almost shut. I throw my hand out with great force and stop it.  
I drop the old woman voice. “Are you sure you want to leave your dear old brother on the streets?”  
\---  
“Here is money for the train, as well as enough to last you a year or so. Remember, get to Waterloo Station by sundown and catch the first train out of town. Go carefully, and do be sure to visit again if possible.”  
I exchange a farewell with my brother. As the door pulls shut, I call out, “Oh yes, and fire your secretary!” I can see her, agape and offended through the door.  
For a while, I stand face to face with the door with a small smile. I drop my head and study the ground for a few seconds. It is then that I realize that this may be the last time I see Mycroft, either not for some time, or ever again. It is a sobering thought. I turn on my heel, take a wide stride, and start to walk away.  
Before I get to Waterloo, I decide to take a small detour to get something. Stepping into the kennels of Scotland Yard, I am hit with a great sense of longing, hope, and then finality. I know that this has to be done, that I have to hide for the sake of my greatest colleague and companion, Doctor John Watson.  
I start down the line of dogs trained for all of their life in difficult trials of scent matching, agility, and other areas. Each dog is still and alert, their eyes pointed straight at me. A low growl escapes a few of them.  
I reach the end of the cages. My interest isn’t with the other dogs. The very last cage holds a special one. He doesn’t growl. In fact, I am certain he is sound asleep. I stop. The echo of my ended footsteps causes his ears to twitch. Then, I can see his large nose wiggle. He blinks and takes in a deep breath. It seems as though he recognizes me by my scent, even in this ridiculous getup. Either that or he is just naïve.  
His tail thumps against the ground, and I can tell he knows who I am under the outfit by his eyes. Unlocking the kennel, I brace myself as he pushes the door open and is reduced to a wriggling heap at my feet as he gets overexcited. As soon as I reach my hand down to give him a pat on the back, my hand is covered with saliva.  
“Well, come one then, Toby.”  
I sigh at the sad sight of the mutt, and wonder how he ever got picked to be trained in the first place.  
===  
Right when we step out of the building, I take off at a run. Instinctually, Toby chases closely at my heels. I figure this will teach him to stay right by me constantly, also getting him some exercise, and us to the train station quicker. I left my wig, hat, dress, and shoes with the rest of my disguises in a closet lent to me in the building. Instead of my usual suit and coat, I don a buttoned shirt and slacks. We are close enough to see the station. Toby has taken to running ahead of me. Then, he skids to a halt, keeping his body rigid and his eyes forward. I dig my heels in the ground to keep from running into him.  
There is no one in sight except the conductor taking tickets. No wonder I was the only one to take this dog on cases. I nudge him forward, but he resists. I heft him up into my arms and carry him the rest of the way.  
Setting Toby down in front of the conductor, I fish for my ticket and pull it out of a pocket. Toby slinks a few feet away from us, and I hand my ticket over. I turn around to board the train, and a hand falls on my shoulder.  
“You aren’t the only one that is handy with disguises.”  
I reach up and pull the hand forward and down, leaning forward. Another gravity trick. Colonel Moran hooks his other arm around my neck and pulls me down with him. Suddenly, Moran slides out from underneath me. Bewildered, I look up to see Toby with a jawful of pant leg. Moran scrambles to his feet, and Toby lets out a terrifying snarl and clamps his teeth down a couple of times. Moran understands the message, and sprints for his dear life.  
I grab Toby and toss him on the back of the moving train, hopping on after him.  
He pants and sits down. Then he gives me a rather silly looking dog-smile, and I stare at him for a while before spontaneously erupting into laughter.  
“I take back what I said before.” I tell this dog, “Next stop, Florence, Italy.” The sun sets behind us.


End file.
